THE  LITTLE 
SCHOOL 


HARCOURT,  BRACE 
AND  HOWE 


/J 


5 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE    LITTLE    SCHOOL 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

POETRY 

1899.  THE  VINEDRESSER  AND  OTHER 

POEMS 

1901.  APHRODITE  AGAINST  ARTEMIS 
1903.  ABSALOM 

1903.  DANAE 

1905.  THE  LITTLE  SCHOOL 

1906.  POEMS 

1914.  THE  SEA  IS  KIND 
PROSE 

1899.  THE     CENTAUR     AND     THE     BAC- 

CHANT   FROM    THE    FRENCH    BY 
MAURICE  DE  GUERIN 

1900.  ALTDORFER 

1904.  DURER 
1906.  CORREGGIO 

1910.  ART    AND    LIFE    (FLAUBERT    AND 
BLAKE) 

1915.  HARK  TO  THESE  THREE 


THE    LITTLE    SCHOOL 

BY 
T    STURGE    MOORE 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND   HOWE 
1920 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


rKINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  IT 
WILLIAM    BKBNDON   AND  SON,    LTD.,    PLYMOUTH. 


TO  DAN  AND  RIETTE 

This  enlarged  edition  of  "  The  Little  School  "  is 
dedicated,  without  prejudice  to  the  original  inscrip- 
tion, to 

SYBIL  PYE 

the  mistress  of  the  little  school,  who  first  wished  the 
poems  made  for,  and  brought  them  home  to, 
children. 


ENGLISH 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


BEAUTIFUL  MEALS          .             .  .8 

TO  COOK                 .             .             .  .9 

MERRY  WIND       .             .             .  .10 

WIND'S  WORK      .             .             .  .11 

WORDS  FOR  THE  WIND            .  .     12 

LUBBER  BREEZE             .             .  .13 

LEAF-LAND            .             .             .  .14 

THE  FAUN              .             .             .  .15 

THREE  THINGS                .             .  .16 

A  SONG  OF  CLEANNESS             .  .     17 

THE  MOUSE  IN  THE  BEECHES  .     18 

THE  SQUIRREL    .             .             .  .19 

NEW  CLOTHES     .             .             .  .20 

SHOES  AND  STOCKINGS  OFF   .  .     21 

LULLABY  I.                        .  .22 

LULLABY  II.                       .             .  .23 

PICTURE  FOLK    .             .             .  .24 
WINGS        .... 

HANDS       .             .             .             .  .26 

DAYS  AND  NIGHTS         .             .  .27 

HOME  RULE          .             .             .  .28 

NURSERY  ENACTMENTS             .  .     20 
THE  HOUSE  WE  BUILT 
THE  YOUNG  CORN  IN  CHORUS 
LIFE            .... 

THE  WILD  CHERRY        .  36 

A  CHILD  MUSES  37 

TONGUES  .             .  38 

EYES 39 

MY  FRIEND           .  40 

DAVID  AND  GOLIATH    .  41 
DAVID  AND  JONATHAN 

A  DREAM  1< 

WATER       .  46 

JOSEPH 47 


MARAUDERS          .             .             .  .49 

PLANS  FOR  A  MIDNIGHT  PICNIC  .     50 

ALPINE  HOLIDAYS          .             .  .54 

SNOW 55 

THE  TALE  OF  AN  ASS  .             .  .     56 

TWILIGHT  REVERIE       .             .  .60 

THE  ROWERS'  CHANT  61 


THE    LITTLE    SCHOOL 

BEAUTIFUL  MEALS 

How  nice  it  is  to  eat ! 

All  creatures  love  it  so 

That  they  who  first  did  spread, 

Ere  breaking  bread, 

A  cloth  like  level  snow, 

Were  right,  I  know. 

And  they  were  wise  and  sweet 
Who,  glad  that  meats  taste  good, 
Used  speech  in  an  arch  style, 
And  oft  would  smile 
To  raise  the  cheerful  mood, 
While  at  their  food. 

And  those  who  first,  so  neat, 
Placed  fork  and  knife  quite  straight, 
The  glass  on  the  right  hand  ; 
And  all,  as  planned, 
Each  day  set  round  the  plate, — 
Be  their  praise  great ! 

For  then,  their  hearts  being  light, 
They  plucked  hedge-posies  bright — 
Flowers  who,  their  scent  being  sweet, 
Give  nose  and  eye  a  treat : 
'Twas  they,  my  heart  can  tell, 
Not  eating  fast  but  well, 
Who  wove  the  spell 
Which  finds  me  every  day, 
And  makes  each  meal-time  gay  ; 
I  know  'twas  they. 


8 


TO  COOK 

Like  mown  hay  tossed  in  a  high  wind, — 

As  a  calf  careers  round  a  cow,— 

Like  bags  that  with  lavender  I  lined 

In  the  linen  presses  to  stow,— 

So  buoyant  my  glee,— 

So  joyous  I  bound  and  so  free, — 

So  sweet  and  delicious  the  smell, 

And  the  taste  even  so  sweet  as  well, 

That  you,  that  you,  that  you  give  to  me 

With  your  plum  puddings,  dear  old  cook 

I'll  have  your  praise  sung  in  a  book  ! 


MERRY  WIND 

The  sun  makes  dust  on  the  highways 
The  wind  pokes  fun  at  the  geese  ; 
With  feathers  blown  all  sideways 
In  walking  they  find  no  ease. 

Let  them  spread  wings,  in  it  rushes, 
As  though  to  bulge  out  a  sail ; 
Away  they're  blown  on  the  bushes 
To  wreck  like  yawls  in  a  gale. 


10 


WIND'S  WORK 

Kate  rose  up  early  as  fresh  as  a  lark, 

Almost  in  time  to  see  vanish  the  dark  ; 

Jack  rather  later,  bouncing  from  bed, 

Saw  fade  on  the  dawn's  cheek  the  last  flush  of  red 

Yet  who  knows 

When  the  wind  rose  ? 

Kate  went  to  watch  the  new  lambs  at  their  play 
And  stroke  the  white  calf  born  yesterday  ; 
Jack  sought  the  woods  where  trees  grow  tall 
As  who  would  learn  to  swarm  them  all  : 
Yet  who  knows 
Where  the  wind  goes  ? 

Kate  has  sown  candy-tuft,  lupins  and  peas, 
Carnations,  forget-me-not  and  heart's-ease  ; 
Jack  has  sown  cherry-pie,  marigold, 
Love-that-lies-bleeding  and  snap-dragons  bold  ; 
But  who  knows 
What  the  wind  sows  ? 

Kate  knows  a  thing  or  two  useful  at  home, 
Darns  like  a  fairy,  and  churns  like  a  gnome  ; 
Jack  is  a  wise  man  at  shaping  a  stick, 
Once  he's  in  the  saddle  the  pony  may  kick. 
But  hark  to  the  wind  how  it  blows  ! 
None  comes,  none  goes, 
None  reaps  or  mows, 
No  friends  turn  foes, 
No  hedge  bears  sloes, 
And  no  cock  crows, 
But  the  wind  knows  ! 


ii 


WORDS  FOR  THE  WIND 

With  the  waves  for  hounds, 
With  the  clouds  for  hawks, 
I  hunt  the  fragile  ships 
And  scour  the  dry-land's  dips  ; 
And  my  hale  voice  sounds 
When  a  cavern  talks.— 
Quick,  children,  hold  your  petticoats  down, 
Or  with  heads  in  their  folds  you  will  sail  through 
the  town. 

When  I  lie  on  the  earth 
For  leagues  flowers  shake 
With  joy  ;  I  sit  up,  and  trees 
Pulse  as  my  heart  decrees  ; 
And  new  heavens  have  birth 
When  I  sleep  on  a  lake.— 
Quick,  children,  hold  your  petticoats  down, 
Or  with  heads  in  their  folds  you  will  sail  through 
the  town. 


12 


LUBBER  BREEZE 

The  four  sails  of  the  mill 
Like  stocks  stand  still ; 
Their  lantern-length  is  white 
On  blue  more  bright. 

Unruffled  is  the  mead 
Where  lambkins  feed, 
And  sheep  and  cattle  browse, 
And  donkeys  drowse. 

Never  the  least  breeze  will 
The  wet  thumb  chill 
That  the  anxious  miller  lifts, 
Till  the  vane  shifts. 

The  breeze  in  the  great  flour-bin 
Is  snug  tucked  in  ; 
The  lubber,  while  rats  thieve, 
Laughs  in  his  sleeve. 


LEAF-LAND 

High,  high,  high, 

In  the  sky 

The  tree's  great  head 

Far  out-spread 

Holds  a  world  for  fairies, 

Joy  for  ever  varies. 

Happier  none 
Beneath  the  sun  ! 
They  in  and  out 
Till  leaves  e'en  shout, 
Just  as  hills  do  after 
Children's  louder  laughter. 

As  I  stare 

Right  up  there, 

I  can  see 

Come  to  me 

Down  the  leafy  staircase, 

Such  a  peeping  fair  face 

That  I  feel 

So  little  real, 

Airs  might  shift, 

Yea,  and  lift 

Me  where  bird-wing  fanning 

Would  be  nigh  unmanning. 

High,  high,  high, 
In  the  sky, 
'Mid  the  spread 
Twigs  Fid  thread, 
Like  the  little  fairies 
Where  no  jot  of  care  is. 


A  householder  is  Goathooves  ; 

He  dances  in  his  house  : 

Its  pillars  are  tall  timber  ; 

Its  rafters,  lichened  boughs, 

Support  a  thatch  of  live  green  leaves  ; 

And  dead  leaves  cake  up  into  mats  ; 

Moss  grows  him  carpets  of  deep  pile. 

He  has  no  coats,  he  has  no  hats, 

Nor  wardrobe,  nor  pantry, 

No  table,  no  chair, 

Nor  bedstead,  nor  basin, 

For  he  can  wash  where 

The  stream  runs  clear  above  the  stones  : 

And  the  best  that  he  owns 

Is  a  heart  that  warms  a  true  neighbour 

For  folk  in  feathers — folk  in  fur, 

But  dreads  to  meet  with  grown-up  men, 

Though  it  have  a  weakness  for  some  children. 


THREE  THINGS 

Three  things  are  there  made  for  fun, 

And  one  a  frolic  breeze  is  ; 

See  it  over  wide  fields  run  ! 

Ha,  your  hair  is  down  ! 

Ho,  there  goes  my  hat ! 

And  neither  meant  to  tease  is  : 

There's  fun  in  this,  there's  fun  in  that ; 

How  useless  at  the  wind  to  frown  ! 

Three  things  are  there  meant  for  frisks  ; 

And  one  a  field  of  hay  is  ; 

Fill  the  air  with  scented  whisks  ! 

Ha,  you're  buried,  child  ! 

Ho,  where  am  I  now  ? 

All's  fun  that  done  in  play  is  ; 

Both  this  and  that  come  right  somehow 

Though  all  a  field  with  joy  go  wild. 

Three  things  are  there  planned  for  romps 

And  one  a  dancing  sea  is  ; 

When  they  forget  their  foaming  pomps, 

Ha,  what  rogues  the  waves  are  ! 

Ho,  I'm  off  my  feet ! 

The  sea-folk  know  what  glee  is  ; 

They  all  have  tempers  sweet, 

Are  laughers  loud  as  caves  are, 

Are  rompers  hard  to  beat. 

Sea-children  let  us  be  to-day 

And  roll  and  gambol  in  the  spray, 

Till  little  merlads  and  little  mermaids 

Leave  their  under-sea  lawns  and  their  sea-weed 

glades 

And  come  to  join  our  play  ; 
They  happy  as  we,  we  happy  as  they 
The  live-long  day. 


16 


A  SONG  OF  CLEANNESS 

Sing  gladly  when  you  wash,  and  start 
A  sweet  song  when  you  take  your  bath  : 
Clean  hands  they  make  a  lightsome  heart, 
And  clean  feet  tread  a  happy  path. 

Into  the  trembling  water  dip 
With  soiled  and  clammy  skin, 
Soon  from  the  tossing  bath  to  skip 
Clean  as  a  new  pin. 

Life  in  you,  as  in  a  lamb,  is 
Keen  to  gambol  joyously  : 
Towel  toga  and  fringed  chlamys, 
In  place  of  frock  and  suit,  leave  free 
Limbs  as  for  small  Greek  and  Roman  ; 
Be  you  like  them  then,  if  no  man 
Else  to-day  so  wise  is  found ; 
Frolic  with  grace,  and  let  your  voices, 
Timed  and  tuned,  avoid  mere  noises ; 
Riot  not,  but  dance  and  sing  : 
"  If  tall  trees  above  the  ground 
"  Grow  green  in  spring, 
"  Deep,  oh  deep,  their  roots  have  wound 
"  Groping  where  no  light  is  found. 
"  Strike  deep,  strike  deep,  like  a  root ; 
"  Wisdom,  strike  deep  through  the  heart  ! 
'  Your  clean  foot  wants  not  for  a  boot ; 
"  Clean  hands,  once  joined,  need  never  part." 

From  laughter  rarely  cease  for  long, 
Yet  never  over  loudly  laugh  ; 
Then  gaily  singing  wash  !    A  song, 
Oh,  sing  one  gladly  in  your  bath  ! 


THE  MOUSE  IN  THE  BEECHES 

A  little  brown  wood-mouse 
His  ample  fur-cloak  dons  ; 
Then  ties  his  comforter, 
Wool  white  as  down  of  swans  ; 
And  as  he  left  the  house, 
To  see  his  tail  was  there, 
He  turned  his  head  ; 
Then  off  he  sped, 
To  look  if  beech  nuts  were 
Silver  or  red. 


18 


THE  SQUIRREL 

O  squirrel,  would  I  were  as  you  ! 

As  nimble  on  a  bough,  as  quick 

To  listen, — re-assured,  to  flick 

My  tail  and  bound  across  and  through 

The  leafy  coverts,  twig-supported, 

'Mid  rafters  of  some  great  tree's  roof 

Where  sun  soaks  through  the  rain-drop  proof, 

And  heavy  body  never  sported. 

Winged  birds  are  there,  and  you,  the  red 
Small  playful  scurrier  up  the  bark, 
Whose  home  is  in  some  hollow  dark 
But  soft  and  warm  as  any  bed. 
Have  after  you,  you  wingless  flitter  ! 
Race  me  into  the  topmost  boughs  ! 
What  need  have  we  for  floors  ?   a  house 
Without  a  plank  for  us  were  fitter  ! 

Teach  me  to  swarm  and  climb  and  be 
A  sailor  such  as  those  who  vie 
—On  mast  and  rigging  dizzy  high — 
With  you  in  nimbleness  and  glee  ! 
For  though  a  loud  wind  toss  these  branches 
A  ship  is  handled  worse  by  storms  : 
Then  to  his  work  the  sailor  warms  ; 
From  spar  to  rope  he  daring  launches. 


NEW  CLOTHES 

O  all  ye  meadows  fair, 

And  soft  sunshiny  banks, 

Where  daisies  without  number — where 

Pale  cowslips  range  their  comely  ranks, 

And  buttercups  with  prouder  yellow 

Think  each  himself  the  finest  fellow  ; 

Since  I  put  on  new  clothes  to-day, 

Call,  call  me  forth  to  you  ; 

For  I  would  bear  myself  the  way 

Your  trimmest  blossoms  do. 

Ye  nobly  peopled  woods, 
And  stately  thronged  dells  ! 
Moods  of  grand  oak  and  beech-tree — moods 
Of  lofty  pines  whose  music  swells 
To  the  hale  wind's  repeated  pleasure, 
When  all  their  tops  keep  time  and  measure- 
Are  moods  that  I  would  learn  to  share  ; 
Then  call  me  forth,  ye  trees, 
Teach  me  grave  bows  and  curtseys  fair 
As  those  ye  give  the  breeze. 


20 


SHOES  AND  STOCKINGS  OFF 

Bare  feet,  bare  feet, 

Lovers  of  the  dew  ; 

Pleased  by  the  wet  moss  greatly, 

Pleased  by  the  shell-strewn  shore, 

Pleased  by  the  lawn  grass  too 

Yet 

More  by  a  golden  floor. 

Bare  feet,  bare  feet, 

Every  day  bless  you  ! 

Walk  near  the  fountains  stately, 

Walk  in  the  pebbled  stream, 

Walk  'neath  the  calm  waves  blue 

And 

Dream  there  a  mermaid's  dream. 

Oh,  fare  sweet,  my  bare  feet 
Like  lovers  two  and  two  ! 
Lead  me  for  ever  where  there 
Of  shoes  is  known  no  need  ; 
For  I  have  ne'er  met  care  there 
Where  I  with  you  might  speed  ; 
Lead  me  because  I  love  you, 
Love  you,  my  sweet  bare  feet, — 
Then  still  I'll  sing  above  you 
And  you  shall  still  fare  sweet. 


21 


LULLABY  I. 

Laugh,  laugh, 

Laugh  gently  though, — 

For  leaves  do  so, 

When  the  great  boughs,  to  and  fro, 

Cradle  the  birds  on  the  tops  of  the  trees, — 

Gently  they  laugh  for  the  love  of  these. 

Sleep,  sleep, 

Sleep  lightly  though, — 

For  birds  do  so, 

Rocked  by  great  boughs  to  and  fro  ; 

With  wind  in  their  feathers,  their  dreams  have 

wings 
And  they  visit  the  gardens  of  fabulous  kings. 


22 


LULLABY  II. 

Stripped  thee  when  thou  hast  and  girt 

Thy  clean  night-shirt, 

Leap  into  thy  soft  snug  bed  ; 

Lay  down  thy  head  ; 

Sleep,  and  in  thy  white  cot  be 

A  picture  for  the  stars  to  see. 

Cling  not  to  the  game  that's  dead  ; 

Be  glad  instead, 

After  all  thy  falls  and  frowns, 

That  silence  drowns 

All  that  any  star  might  see 

To  make  such  clear  light  sad  for  thee. 

Sleep,  sleep ; 

Down,  down, 

Through  silence  good  and  deep, 

Down,  down  ; 

Sink  as  through  a  well,  each  trace 

Or  of  spite,  of  sulk  or  frown, 

Dying  out  from  thy  still  face 

Till  asleep  thou  dreaming  lie, — 

A  sight  to  charm  the  moon  on  high 

And  hold  her  longer  in  the  sky. 


PICTURE  FOLK 

Little  rogues  in  pictures, 
Rogues  with  nothing  on, 
Naked,  nimble,  elfin, 
Quickly  come  and  gone  ; 
Whether  ye  have  wings  or  no 
Easy  as  a  thought  you  go 
Through  the  air  and  over  sea, 
Or,  in  and  round  majestic  tree, 
Circle  like  some  giddy  bee. 

Little  rogues  in  pictures, 

How  did  you  come  there, 

Naked,  nimble,  elfin, 

Blithe  as  sunny  air  ? 

Whether  now  you  swim  or  fly 

Swallow-like  about  the  sky, 

Is  it  all  the  same  to  you 

That  I  cannot,  rustling  through 

Green  boughs  upward,  reach  the  blue  ? 

Little  rogues  in  pictures, 

Lived  I  where  you  play, 

Freed  from  clothes  and  elfin, 

Airy,  light  and  gay, 

Though  an  hundred  friends  I  had, 

I  should  want  one  who  was  clad 

In  clothes  and  walked  in  boots,  I  should  ; 

And,  in  summer  field  or  wood, 

I  should  swoop  down  where  he  passed 

And  hold  and  kiss  him  very  fast, 

For  fear  that  he  should  be  afraid 

Before  of  him  my  friend  were  made 

And  we  upon  the  earth  had  played. 


24 


WINGS 

That  man  who  wishes  not  for  wings 

Must  be  the  slave  of  care  ; 

For  birds  that  have  them  move  so  well 

And  softly  through  the  air  : 

They  venture  far  into  the  sky, 

If  not  so  far  as  thoughts  or  angels  fly. 

Feather  from  under  feather  springs, 

All  open  like  a  fan  ; 

Our  eyes  upon  their  beauty  dwell, 

And  marvel  at  the  plan 

By  which  things  made  for  use  so  rare 

Are  powerful  and  delicate  and  fair. 

When  callow  brood  doth  rest 

Against  a  feathered  mother's  breast, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings, 

None  seem  so  close  at  home  as  they, 

Nor  is  love  felt  a  cosier  way  ; 

Their  mother  is  their  home  !    Lark  sings, 

And  lark  may  sing  ;  but  not  so  take 

The  heart  by  storm  as  hen  can  take 

When,  hawk  in  the  sky, 

She  is  brave  for  her  fledglings'  sake  ! 

Swallow  soars,  and  swallow  may  soar  on  high 

To  the  top  of  the  sky  ; 

The  eagle  is  strong,  the  ostrich  fleet ; 

Let  them  glory  in  prowess.    Ere 

They  learned  to  conquer  air  and  space 

With  ease,  velocity  and  grace, 

Lark,  swallow,  eagle,  ostrich  were 

Dependent  on  devoted  care  ; 

Each  once  was  snugly  stowed  away, 

Yea,  like  a  smooth  stone  there  each  lay 

Egg  speckled,  bluish,  white  or  grey  ! 


HANDS 

Sing,  for  with  hands, 

One  thumb  and  four  fingers  a-piece, 

They  built  the  temples  of  Egypt  and  Greece 

Sing,  for  in  many  lands 

Are  things  of  use  and  beauty  seen, 

That  without  hands  had  never  been — 

Without  skilled  hands  ! 

White  hands,  deft  hands, 

No  lily  is  more  lovely,  no, 

Nor  can  the  swan  more  graces  show 

Than  lady's  arm  commands  !— 

O  strength  as  of  a  giant's  grip  ! 

O  firmness  meet  to  steer  a  ship  ! 

O  swart,  male  hands  ! 

Frank  hands,  free  hands, 
When  shall  my  little  ones  grow  great 
And  clasp  such  huge  ones  for  their  mate  ? 
Who  thinks,  who  understands, 
How  hands  of  soldiers  and  of  kings, 
And  all  those  by  princesses  waved, 
Were  once  a  baby's  hands,  and  craved 
For  jangling  toys  and  shining  things  ? 


26 


DAYS  AND  NIGHTS 

Like  a  king  from  a  sunrise-land 

In  fair  ship  sailing, 

With  banners  salt  winds  expand 

And  pennons  trailing  ; 

With  wealth  untold  and  a  mind  unknown, 

And  a  power  to  love  and  make  friends  of  his  own, 

And  a  power  to  leave  those  he  likes  not  alone, 

Each  new  day  comes  to  me,— 

Like  king  from  far  east  sailing 

Over  the  sea. 

In  a  barge  with  golden  trappings 

For  queen  prepared, 

And,  against  the  cold,  rich  wrappings 

And  furs  deep-haired, 

To  lands  afar,  by  a  force  unguessed, 

Where  the  face  reveals  what  hides  in  the  breast, 

And  by  doubt  of  another  no  heart  is  distressed, 

Some  nights  have  carried  me, 

Like  queen  that  homeward  fared 

Over  the  sea. 

O  heart,  be  true  and  strong, 
That  worth  make  thee  each  day's  good  friend  ; 
Then  thou  the  hours  of  dark  shalt  spend 
Out  there,  where  is  no  wrong. 


27 


HOME  RULE 

Oh,  to  be  glad  as  a  bird  ! 

Never  to  be  put  out ! 

Not  to  be  ruffled  by  look  or  word, 

But  both  to  meet  like  the  bluest  day 

That  charms  the  world  in  May  ! 

Oh,  to  live  on  and  on  ! 

Travel  the  world  about, 

As  cloud  sails  or  as  sails  a  swan, 

When  skies  are  blue  and  waters  bright 

Bearing  serene  delight ! 

Bearing  a  smile  like  the  sun, 
Break  on  to-day  and  to-morrow, 
Soothing  the  eyes  of  sorrow, 
And  giving  a  cause  for  none  ! 
This  is  to  be  a  queen  or  a  king, 
Not  of  countries  but  hearts  ; 
This  is  to  conquer  everything 
At  home,  not  foreign  parts. 


28 


NURSERY  ENACTMENTS 

Before  their  nursery  fire  one  day 
Upon  two  hassocks  sat 
Willy  and  Nance,  half  tired  of  play  ; 
Between  them  purred  the  cat. 

"  You  said  this  afternoon  '  I  would 
'  We'd  seen  a  fairy/  Nance  ; 
"  I've  read  of  fairies  ;  most  were  good 
"  And  loved  to  play  and  dance. 

'  Yet  now  it  is  a  long  while  since 
"  Fairies  were  often  seen  ; 
"  Oh,  that  I  then  had  been  a  prince, 
"  And  you  had  been  a  queen  ! 

'  Then,  kindlier  spoken  of,  the  fairies 

'  Were  not  too  rarely  seen  ; 
"  By  night  they  churned  butter  in  dairies 
"  Or  swept  the  farm-house  clean. 

"  A  bowl  of  milk  for  Lob  was  set, 
"  His  beans  Hobgoblin  earned  : 
"  And  one  was  drained,  the  other  eat 
"  Before  the  day  returned. 

'  Then  through  the  woodland  glades  by  night 
'  Would  Queen  Titania  stray 
'  With  Oberon,  and  the  moonlight 
"  No  fairer  was  than  they. 

'  While  little  elves  danced  in  their  rings 
"  Upon  the  dewy  grass  ; 
"  Ah,  freshlier,  greener,  herbage  springs 
'  Where  feet  so  happy  pass  ! 


29 


"  A  world  within  a  world  was  theirs, 
"  A  house  within  a  house  ; 
"  One  slumbering  while  the  other  stirs, 
"  One  bold,  one  shy  as  mouse. 

"  A  prince  no  other  palace  had, 
"  A  queen  no  other  bower, 
"  Than  a  farm-house  with  roses  clad, 
"  And  jasmine  porch  in  flower. 

"  The  queen  sate  in  the  doorway  then, 
"  Adorned  with  joy  and  health  ; 
"  The  prince  then  laboured  with  his  men, 
"  More  proud  of  skill  than  wealth  : 

"  The  queen  shelled  peas  as  she  sate  there, 
"  Or  russet  pippins  pared  ; 
"  Wise  travellers  speak  to  those  so  fair, 
"  And  thus  their  meals  were  shared  ; 

"  For  such  a  prince  was  glad  to  find 
"  For  guest  at  supper  time, 
"  A  man  who  had  improved  his  mind 
"  In  many  a  far-off  clime." 

The  cat  purred  on  ;  then  Nance,  at  last 
Unto  her  brother  said, 
While  on  her  grave  face  fire-light  cast 
Its  fervent  glow  of  red, 

"  O  Willy,  when  you  spoke  of  how 
'  The  fairies  worked  by  night, 

"  And  in  the  morning  swept  and  neat 
'  Each  farm-house  would  its  inmates  greet, 
'  I  thought  the  same  thing  happens  now  ; 

"  Our  house  is  thus  set  right. 


"  For  often  when  we  go  to  bed 
'  The  room's  in  such  a  mess, 
'  That  I  am  quite  rejoiced  to  see 
'  The  bedrooms  prim  and  orderly  ; 
'  They  make  me  on  my  toe-tips  tread 

"  In  awe  of  tidiness. 

"  And  in  the  morning,  why,  we  leave 
'  The  beds  turned  inside  out ; 

'Tis  dreadful  after  bolster-fights  ! 
"  But  think,  are  there  more  dear  delights 
'  Than  from  this  room  our  eyes  receive  ? 
"  It  often  makes  you  shout 

'  To  see  a  nice  new  fire  ablaze, 

'  The  chairs  in  order  set, 

'  The  floor  swept  clean,  the  breakfast  laid 
"  And  all  as  by  a  fairy  made, 

'  When  sun  shines,  to  enchant  our  gaze, 
"  Or  comfort,  when  it's  wet. 

'  A  house  within  a  house  '  you  said, 
'  When, — me  this  thought  amazes  !— 
'  Why,  that  is  just  as  true  to-day  ! 
"  Only,  I  think,  a  luckier  way 
"  Had  come  into  somebody's  head 
"  Of  singing  servants'  praises  ! 

"  How  nice  to  call  them  fairies,  Will, 
"  And  be  as  pleased  to  see 
'  In  any  place  about  the  house 
'  Them,  as  a  fairy  shy  as  mouse  ! 
'  It  would  go  far  my  days  to  fill 
'  With  queenliness  and  glee  !  " 

"  A  game  to  last  forever,  Nance  ! 

'  You've  hit  upon  it ;  come  and  dance  ! 


"  Queen  Nance's  house,  the  sprucely  kept 

"  Shall  nightly  be  by  fairies  swept— 

"  Shy  elves  as  rarely  seen 

"  By  daylight,  as  are  dusky  mice, 

"  Of  any  save  prince  William's  eyes 

"  And  those  of  Nance  the  queen  !  '' 

(While  they  are  dancing  the  cat  walks  into  the  next 
room.) 


THE  HOUSE  WE  BUILT 

List  !   winding  ways  lead  through  our  wood, 
Winding  ways  that  dip  and  rise  ; 
For  over  hills  the  trees  have  grown, 
Over  hills  whose  dells  are  mazed 
With  thickets  of  such  close  resort, 
For  precincts  to  a  fairy  court 
Those  thickets  seemed  designed,  and  oh  ! 
Precincts  they  are,  they  are  !    not  for  the  fairies 
though  ! 

Yea,  busy  builders  wove  the  boughs, 
Busy  builders  planted  stakes  ; 
While  active  hands  tore  heather  up 
Hands  active  roofed  the  weather  out. 
Of  no  concern  there — dreams  are  all 
Ye  crowds  who  call  us  children,  call 
Our  great  concern  but  romps  and  games  ! 
Two  rooms  !  a  house  built  far  from  voice   that 
warns  or  blames ! 

Oh,  it  were  hard  to  find 
A  place  so  to  our  mind  ! 
Should  one  grown  up  grow  wise 
He'ld  leave  yon  crowd  of  spies, 
Flit  from  before  their  eyes, 
Glide  swift  from  tree  to  tree, 
Come  hither  and  grow  free, 
Have  royal  fun — 
Have  done 
With  dullness,  even  as  we. 


33 


THE  YOUNG  CORN  IN  CHORUS 

All  we,  the  young  corn,  stalwart  stand 
In  millions  upright  side  by  side, 
And  countless  acres  of  the  land 
In  orderly  close  chorus  hide, 
Shouting  :   "  Gold,  of  his  largess, 
"  And  health  he  discharges 
"  Both  far  and  wide  !  " 

Though  all  the  world  were  brimmed  withhold 
And  valleys  with  health  had  over-run, 
Who  could  command  his  hand  to  hold, 
Contest  the  giving  of  the  sun  ? 
Hail  him  ;  vigour  for  growing 
He  cometh  bestowing 
On  each  weak  one  ! 

The  winds,  with  showers  on  their  backs, 
His  servants,  lounge  by  distant  seas  ; 
And  far-seen  summits  of  their  packs 
Heave  up  when  shifted  for  their  ease, — 
Wearied,  long  there  attending 
Lest  heat  of  his  sending 
Cloy  those  he  would  please. 


34 


LIFE 

My  life  feels  like  a  mouse 

In  some  strange  giant's  house  ; 

Or  like  a  single  fly 

In  a  Saharan  sky  : 

Small  part  in  life  have  I, 

Yet  of  one  sort  with  it  whole, 

Is  my  small  soul. 

Bird-life  makes  glad  the  trees, 

And  tree-life  throngs  our  hill, 

But  life  would  fill 

An  airier  hive  with  souls  for  bees — 

More  room  than,  far  from  shore, 

A  night -sky  coops  above  wide  seas  : 

Though  that  were  packed,  outside  were  more. 

My  eyes  drink  up  the  swallow's  flight  : 

Swift,  smooth  and  light, 

Their  joy  is  free. 

The  sound  that  heaves 

Like  music  up  from  a  mile  of  leaves, 

Is  glory  to  me. 

Then,  there  are  waters  gurgling  along, 

And  ladies  together  singing  a  song, 

Sounds  that,  entering  my  head, 

Move  more  than  can  be  said. 

Oh  !   and  by  how  much  life,  thought  of,  should 

Thrill  more  than  flight,  song,  stream  or  wood ! 


35 


THE  WILD  CHERRY 

Though  one  white  bunch  would  crown  the  tree 

A  million  blossoms  laugh  at  me, — 

Each  one  exquisite  and  neat ; 

Each  with  grace  to  rule  a  heaven  ; 

Lavish  of  joy  as  is  the  sun 

Of  light  and  heat  ! 

Who  could  love  them  every  one  ? 

To  whom  has  such  a  heart  been  given  ? 


A  CHILD  MUSES 

Joy  steals  through  me  if  I  sleek 
Damask  petals  of  a  rose 
Softer  than  a  fairy's  cheek  ; 
While  for  gladness  my  hand  goes 
Through  fringes  of  floss-silk,  and  guesses 
How  slowly  mermaids  comb  their  tresses. 

"  O  thou  rosy  finger-tip, 

'  Touch  me  !  "  pleads  the  looking-glass  : 

'  Then  muse  how  palms  of  feet  must  trip 

"  O'er  polished  sapphire  floors,  where  pass 
'  The  seraphs  holding  hands  and  singing 

"  Songs  that  through  their  hearts  are  ringing." 

How  these  hands  of  mine  would  love, 
When,  both  scooped  up,  they  form  a  nest, 
If  down  some  comfortable  dove 
Fluttered,  and,  cooing,  there  should  rest, 
While  quivered  through  my  arms  such  blisses 
As  sleeper  feels  whom  vision  kisses  ! 


37 


TONGUES 

Tongues  there  are  that  naught  can  say  ; 
Tongues  there  are  that  run  away  ; 
Tongues  that  lure  the  fairies  nigher  ; 
Tongues  that  set  the  world  on  fire  ; 
Bad's  the  tongue  that  rules  his  master  ; 
Such  lead  ever  to  disaster. 

Early  make  your  tongue  obey  ; 

Always  know  what  it  will  say  ; 

Bid  it  say  what  you  think  best, 

Hold  it  in  for  all  the  rest : 

Fairies  ban  all  tittle-tattle, 

Wise  men  shun  the  tongues  that  rattle. 

Neither  dumbness  nor  yet  noise 

Makes  a  paradise  of  life  ; 

Nor  wise  nor  foolish  can  rejoice 

Where  a  bitter  tongue  is  rife  ; 

But  friendly  tongues  with  gentle  speech, 

Morning,  evening,  or  at  noon, 

Or  'neath  the  tender  silent  moon, 

Will  ofttimes  help  their  owners  reach 

Bliss  that  feels  like  fairyland, 

Or  where  the  angels,  hand  in  hand 

Pace  the  gardens  of  delight 

Or  coast  round  clouds  at  evening  bright. 


EYES 

What  pretty  words  he  ought  to  know 
Whose  heart  is  bent  on  praising  eyes  ! 
He  must  work  on  till  midnight  though, 
And,  ere  the  sun,  be  keen  to  rise 
Before  his  words  will  flow, 
His  thoughts  be  wise. 

What  pen  of  pens,  in  a  fine  hand, 
Should  copy  clear,  praise  due  to  eyes  ! 
Some  feather  dropped  on  spice  island — 
Quill  shed  by  bird  of  paradise  ! 
Ink  stirred  by  magic  wand 
That  golden  dries  ! 

What  clean  brave  pages  in  what  book 
Would  he  trace  over,  praising  eyes  ! 
And  writing,  what  an  earnest  look  ! 
Then  reading,  how  his  heart  would  prize 
That  world  of  pains  he  took  ! 
The  cost  in  sighs  ! 

For  no  king  ever  owned  a  gem 
Was  worth  the  half  of  his  two  eyes, 
Nor  princess  bore  the  diadem  ; 
So  none  to  name  their  value  tries  : 
Yet  when  love  blindeth  them 
It  pays  the  price. 

This  then  is  why  a  mother  says 
She'ld  for  her  baby  give  her  eyes  : 
Nor  could  you  write  them  finer  praise, 
Though  you  before  the  sun  should  rise  ; 
Words  could  no  freelier  flow, 
Thought  be  more  wise. 


39 


MY  FRIEND 

I  have  a  friend,  and  he  is  gay 
As  ever  in  the  month  of  May 
Could  be  a  true  blue  holiday. 
He  takes  a  pleasure, 
No  matter  what  the  game  may  be, 
As  great  as  those  who  sail  a  sea 
And  are  the  first  to  sail  there  ;  he 
Makes  much  of  leisure. 

In  school  he  pores  above  his  book 
As,  lonely  in  a  woodland  nook, 
Queen  fairy  on  herself  might  look 
In  pool  reflected. 
And,  never  taken  by  surprise, 
He  answers  questions  with  his  eyes 
Before  his  ready  tongue  replies 
Clear  and  collected. 

In  battles  long  ago  have  fought 

Brave  men,  and  I  have  often  thought, 

He  with  the  best  his  best  had  wrought ; 

For  none  does  better  : 

Once  all  an  afternoon  he  plied 

The  sculls  and  rowed  against  the  tide, 

Though  she  to  sea  had  drifted  wide, 

If  he  had  let  her. 

We  others  gave  up,  wearied  out : 

But,  though  his  arms  ached,  he  was  stout, 

And  none  who  stayed  a  battle's  rout 

Could  have  kept  cooler. 

So,  not  to  waste  his  friendship,  I 

To  be  like  him  resolve  to  try, 

And  when  like  me  the  world  thinks,  why, 

We'll  make  him  ruler. 


40 


DAVID  AND  GOLIATH 

With  half  his  arm  in  running  water 
David  groped  for  rounded  pebbles  ; 
Kneeling  by  the  brook,  he  sought  there 
Till  he  found  five  that  were  good  : 
O  that  I  had  been  by  then, 
When  at  last  he  upright  stood, 
Choicest  of  the  sons  of  men  ! 
While  round  his  feet  in  rippling  trebles 
Water  crooned  across  the  pebbles. 

He  was  young  and  fair  to  see 

In  his  shepherd's  dress  ; 

His  spirit  and  his  limbs  felt  free, 

Quit  then  of  their  late  distress 

When  he,  caged  in  king  Saul's  casque  and  gaunt 

war  suit, 

Had  said,  "  I  cannot  go  in  these, 
Since  their  use  I  have  not  tested  " — would  not 

do  it 
Even  a  king  to  please. 

He  left  that  clear  and  purling  water  ; 

Only  one  of  his  five  stones 

Did  he  use,  yet  mighty  slaughter 

On  the  Philistines  ensued  : 

O  that  I  had  heard  the  shout, 

When  that  stone  had  been  proved  good — 

Done  its  work  beyond  a  doubt  ! 

While  ended  felled  Goliath's  groans, 

And  no  need  for  further  stones. 

It  is  always  good  to  be 
Where  long-sighed-for  things 
Are  done  with  that  felicity 
Every  hero  with  him  brings, — 


When  he  must  be  up  and  doing,  steps  forth  lightly, 
Nor  needs  fear's  casque  and  mail  to  don  ; 
Sure,  he  who  acteth  simply,  bravely,  rightly, 
Hath  trustier  armour  on. 


42 


DAVID  AND  JONATHAN 

It  was  not  easier  to  be  brave 

When  Jonathan  to  David  gave 

A  prince's  for  a  shepherd's  kiss, 

And  golden  bracelets,  chains  and  rings, 

And  garments  such  as  sons  of  kings 

Wore  then  to  walk  where  honour  is. 

It  was  not  easier  to  be  true 

And  wear  as  he,  a  prince,  must  do, — 

Meeting  blank  wonder  or  a  jeer — 

A  shepherd's  smock,  and  count  it  bliss 

Merely  because  that  smock  was  his — 

David's,  his  friend's,  whose  love  cost  dear. 

It  was  not  easier  to  be  brave 

And  sleep  in  lonely  den  or  cave 

Where  lions  prowl,  where  scorpions  crawl, 

When,  hunted  by  his  friend's  mad  father, 

David  risked  his  own  life  rather 

Than  take  the  life  of  sleeping  Saul. 

It  was  not  easier  to  be  true, 
When  he  once  more  found  Saul,  and  knew 
That  he  might  kill  him  and  go  free — 
To  save  the  man  who  sought  to  slay  him, 
To  take  his  spear  and  cruse,  then  pray  him 
Be  friends,  calling  himself  a  flea  ! 

Not  without  effort  are  friends  made  ; 

Not  without  suffering  are  they  kept  : 

Though  this  is  like  a  friend  indeed, 

To  suffer  plaintless  and  not  heed 

Though  pain  have  reached  him  through  his  friend 

But  when  such  troubles  find  an  end, 


43 


And  joy  is  his,  then,  then  to  need 
His  friend,  is  like  a  friend  indeed. 

Oh,  often  find  the  time  to  muse 
About  the  gentle,  brave,  and  good  ! 
There  is  no  better  way  to  choose 
When  nothing  waits  that  should  be  done 
Yea,  let  the  mind  take  flight  and  run 
Like  a  'scaped  deer  that  seeks  the  wood, 
To  stories  of  the  brave  and  good  ! 


44 


A  DREAM 

The  body,  when  a  man  is  dead, 

Like  an  empty  dress  lies  on  the  bed  ; 

But  that,  which  in  his  heart  said  "  I," 

Travels  away  a  butterfly  ; 

Called  Psyche  in  the  old  Greek  tales, 

This  wonder-pinioned  creature  sails 

From  trees  in  bloom  to  open  spaces, 

Where,  amid  herbs,  glow  petalled  faces. 

Now  listen ;  in  a  dream,  last  night, 

My  psyche  through  my  mouth  takes  flight 

And  soon  planes  down  through  warm  blue,  where 

Her  grand  resplendent  fellows  fare 

On,  swallow-tailed  or  peacock-eyed, 

Wings  whose  colours  glint  and  glide, 

And  shame  the  wardrobe  of  a  king 

For  fairy  cut  and  tailoring. 

I  cruise  on  raptly  like  proud  ship, 

Then  over  a  pool-mirror  dip 

And  see,  not  heart-contenting  wings, 

But  glazed  rubbed  smeary  whale-bone  things  ! 

Then  I  remembered  yesterday 

And  how  my  temper  spoiled  our  play. — 

Poor  scarecrow,  to  my  chrysalid 

I  flew  straight  back,  crawled  in  and  hid. 


45 


WATER 

"  Tell  me  what  hath  water  done  ?  ' 
"  From  highest  mountains  it  hath  run 
"  And  found  a  way  to  distant  seas, 
"  And  all  the  time  flowed  on  with  ease, 
"  Welcome  as  those  who  love  to  please." 

"  Say,  what  else  hath  water  done  ?  ' 

"  It  hath  soared  up  toward  the  sun 

"  And  piled  cloud-ranges  in  the  air, 

"  Shaped  city,  ship  or  white  steed  there— 

"  Forms  that  with  happiest  dreams  compare." 

'  What  hath  water  done  beside  ?  " 
"  Cleansed  the  hands  we  fain  would  hide, 
"  Made  soiled  faces  fit  to  kiss  ; 
"  And  water's  crowning  work  it  is 
"  When  tear-washed  hearts  recapture  bliss/' 


JOSEPH 

To  the  chamber  where  he  slept 
Went  Joseph  the  first  time  he  wept ; 
Because  he  saw  them  and  had  heard 
His  father  lived — saw  Benjamin, 
His  little  brother  ;  not  a  word 
Could  he  venture  to  them  then. 

The  second  time  he  bade  the  crowd 
Leave  the  room,  then  wept  aloud  : 
"  Lo  !   I  am  Joseph — be  not  grieved — 
"  Your  brother  whom  you  sold  : 
"  Yet  not  by  you  was  I  bereaved 
"  Of  all  dear  things — my  father  old 
"  And  Benjamin,  my  brother  small 
"  (Ah,  now  behold  how  he  is  tall  !) 
"  God  only  took  me  from  him  then, 
"  And  God  restores  me  Benjamin." 

So  came  joy  washed  bright  with  tears  ; 
For  every  day  of  all  those  years 
Joseph's  heart  had  grown  more  strong  ; 
Not  in  vain,  he,  in  the  pit, 
Strove  with  terror,  grief,  and  wrong  ; 
Not  in  vain,  drawn  up  from  it, 
And  sold  a  slave,  sought  he  to  know 
How  even  slaves  win  love  and  trust ; 
And  won,  and  felt  his  prospects  glow  ; 
And  lost ;  yet,  losing,  knew  he  must 
In  prison  still  begin  again, 
Though  all  those  pains  had  proved  in  vain. 
Yea,  every  time  his  efforts  failed 
He  rose  with  stronger  heart  and  wit  ; 
And  every  time  he  higher  scaled 
Till  he  stood  where,  for  dreaming  it, 
They  had  first  thrown  him  in  the  pit. 


47 


Yet  he  to  love  must  change  their  hate, 
Not  blaming  them  ;  for,  though  so  great, 
He  knew  how  hardly  right  is  done 
And  conquest  over  weakness  won — 
Had  come  so  near  to  failure,  he 
Could  but  of  his  love  be  free. 

Rejoice  ! 

Give  the  heart's  gladness  voice  ; 

Encouragement  for  all  he  won, 

Proving  how  much  may  be  done 

By  those  who  once  were  weak. 

Abound 

In  effort,  courage  and  success  ! 

Oh  seek, 

Till  all  you  search  for  has  been  found  ! 

Than  singing  this  is  better,  yes  ! 

Yet  songs  can  hearten  too,— 

And  your  voice  shall  ring  true 

When  you,  as  he  did,  do. 


MARAUDERS 

Glossy  and  black  with  yellow  beak 

He  tilts  his  tail  in  glee — 

The  little  thief  who  gaily  steals 

The  cherries  from  our  tree, 

And,  friendless,  keeps  a  sharp  look  out 

For  many  an  enemy, 

Then  whistles  that  delightful  song 

In  praise  of  robbery. 

We  thrill  at  stories  told  of  men 

Who  lived  such  lawless  lives,— 

Pirates  and  savage  chiefs  and  blades 

Who,  reckless,  slew  their  wives, 

Plundered  and  dared  the  whole  known  world- 

Our  eyes  shine  as  we  read  : 

Bad  though  they  were,  our  blood  is  stirred, 

For  in  them  will  was  deed. 

Could  I  so  dauntlessly  make  mine 
The  graces  they  were  blind  to, 
Contented  as  yon  blackbird  is 
I'ld  cock  my  head,  and  find  too 
That  note  of  clear  contagious  joy, 
WTiich  takes  men,  rude  or  polished. — 
Ah  !  could  I  charm  so,  my  hid  heart's 
Wild  loneness  were  abolished. 


49 


PLANS  FOR  A  MIDNIGHT  PICNIC 

Into  the  schoolroom  rushed  Tim,  where  Margaret, 

Mary  and  Bob 
Had  their  heads  bowed  over  the  county  survey 

half  an  inch  to  the  mile  ; 

He  shouted  "  It's  fixed  for  to-night !    and  sand- 
wiches grow  in  the  kitchen, 
"  Mother  is  choosing  us  fruit  in  the  store  room, 

but  Father  laughs  at  us 
"  And  says,  we  have  more  need  of  food  for  the 

mind  than  the  body,  and  blankly 
"  Shall  stare  at  the  moon  without  word  or  idea  to 

bless  the  occasion 
'  Which  was  to  inspire  our  souls." 

"  Let  us  surprise  him,"  cried  Bob, 
"  As  we  walk  on  the  road, — I  have  it,  Hurrah  ! 

The  woods  in  the  dark 
'  Will  tower  on  either  hand,  an  army  command 

has  arrested  ; 
"  Silent  platoon  by  platoon,  they  await  a  terrible 

summons, 
"  Ready  to  march  through  the  land  and  trample 

the  fields  of  man's  tillage. 

"  Long,  long  ago,  trees  stood  where  now  only  corn- 
stalks are  growing  ; 
"  Forest  spread  over  where  farms  have  usurped 

both  valley  and  hill ; 
'  Therefore  the  tall  timber  ranks  stand  alert  till, 

at  signal  from  Justice, 
'  War  is  declared  on  the  two-legged,  his  works 

abandoned  to  havoc. 
"  Down  shall  go  factory,  mill ;  wall,  fence  and 

paling  be  flattened, 
'  Beech   boles   crash   in  through   parlours,   pine 

trunks  stamp  upon  kitchens, 


"  Bridges  will  lie  broken-backed,  where  the  hun- 
dred year  oak-tree  has  thundered, 
"  Pounding  along  the  high-road,  by  which  so  often 

of  old 
"  His  fathers  and  brothers  were  dragged,  sawn 

through  at  the  ankle  and  branchless, 
"  Cruelly  lopped  and  maimed,  and  chained  to  a 

woodcutter's  trolly, 
"  Even   their    roots    dug   up,    wedge-riven,    and 

turned  into  fuel  !  " 
Both  girls  clapped  their  hands,  and  Tim  with  a 

"  First  rate  !  "  continued  the  fancy  : 
"  Yes,  let  us  think,  as  we  walk  past  the  miles  of 

their  numberless  muster, 
"  How  vengeance  may  overtake  man,  and  city  and 

town  be  beleaguered, 
'  Wide  stretches  with  mansion  and  homestead  and 

village  rammed-in  and  down-trodden 
"  Dismally  tell  where  their  squadrons  have 

wheeled,  boughs  mightily  swinging." 
But   Margaret   here  interposed  with  a  shake  of 

her  long  hood  of  tresses  : 
"  Should  we  not  rather  imagine,  their  patience 

reproaches  us  meekly, 
"  Like  those  who,  though  wronged,  can  love  ;  like 

sorrowful  mothers  and  nurses, 
"  Sad  elder  sisters  that  stand  their  full  height,  and 

await  our  repentance, 

"  Hurt  and  yet  resolute,  dignified,  holding  them- 
selves at  a  distance, 
:<  Brimmed  with  unspeakable  grief  and  yet  ready 

to  flow  with  forgiveness  ?  ' 
Then  Mary's  raised  hand  claimed  the  hearing  her 

voice  was  too  low  to  make  sure  of  : 
'  Listen  !  in  walking  to-night  through  the  woods, 

let  us  ponder  neither 


"  After  this  fashion  or  that,  but  think  of  them 

truly  and  simply, 
"As  of  trees  in  full-leaf  whose  life  is  a  plant's  by 

night  and  by  day, 
"  And  passes  like  absolute  slumber,  for  neither 

muse  they  nor  dream  they  ; 
"  Nothing  they  know  of  revenge,  as  little  of  ruffled 

affection, 
"  Though  warmth  and  the  breeze  unfold  their 

leaves,  though  the  cool  still  hour 
"  Bedew  and  refresh  their  sun-drowsed  tops,  they 

rejoice  not  as  we  do. 
"  Yet  ours  may  be  joy  in  their  welfare  and  we  be 

enthralled  in  the  starlight 
"  By  their  majesty,  lofty  and  mute,  that  finds  a 

way  through  our  being, 
"  Calming  and  soothing  our  hearts ;  yes,  we,  in 

their  stead,  may  be  conscious, 
"  Grieve  for  their  lopping  and  felling,  exult  in 

their  verdant  expansion." 
Here  Bob,  re-inspired,  burst  forth,  "  Yes,  that  is 

the  thought  to  take  Father  ! 
"  Our  hearts  shall  thrill  near  their  stems,  where 

sap  is  ceaselessly  mounting, 
"  Glad  that  each  is  so  lordly  this  June  and,  though 

dolefully  beggared 
"  In  autumn,  it  yet  will,  transfigured  at  Christmas, 

look  like  a  tree-angel, 
"  Dazzling  in  hoar  frost  or  vested  in  snow,  and 

awe  us  with  beauty, — 
'  That  each  will  in  April  be  daintily  tipped  with 

soft  green,  tender 
"  As  down  is  on  duckling  new-hatched,  or  hair  on 

the  head  of  a  baby  !  " 
"  Hush,  here  he  comes  !  "  called  out  Tim.    "  Keep 

all  that  for  midnight  !  "  and  when 


Their  father  had  entered  the  room  they   were 

measuring  routes  on  the  map,— 
Soullessly  keen  on  short-cuts  or  on  choosing  a 

good  place  to  camp  in. 


53 


ALPINE  HOLIDAYS 

It  is  not  useless  to  climb  hills 

Or  toil  up  mountains  ; 

Air  there  is  song-like  ;  the  eye  thrills  ; 

The  near  drops  under,  distance  has  replaced  it. 

How  sight  bathes  in  those  spaces  ! 

Thought  with  vastness  face  to  face  is  ; 

Live,  in  the  fountains, 

Water  is  younger,  readier  to  laugh, 

And  so  worth  while  to  quaff 

That,  thirst  appeased,  you  sip  again  to  taste  it. 

Earth  has  a  human  throb  beneath  our  feet ; 

High  on  a  mountain  breast 

Friendships  are  born  again  ;  we  meet 

Each  other  with  new  zest. 


54 


SNOW 

The  inexhaustible  sky 

Has  covered  the  land  with  flakes  ; 

So  blithe  is  it,  clean  and  new, 

You  smile  as  when  your  spirit  wakes 

To  sudden  splendours 

Of  shaping  power,  that  reveal 

Through  song,  book  or  statue, 

With  what  a  grand  man  you  can  feel, — 

He  who  wrote,  thought  or  made  it, — 

Your  fellow,  your  comrade,  because 

You  enter  it  fully— 

See  and  know  all  it  was 

To  him  ! — Then  snowed-under, 

Forgotten,  effaced, 

Lie  past  failure  and  blunder  ! — 

All  shall  be,  nay  is,  replaced 

By  a  new  life  as  candid  as  snow, 

As  much  of  one  piece  ! 

Ah  !  but  the  whole  while  you  know 

In  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  a  month, 

The  thaw  will  set  in,  and  brown  earth, 

And  black  trees,  and  dull  cloud 

Return — admiration  of  worth 

Give  place  to  those  moods  disavowed. 

Yet  be  not  then  cowed, 

But  remember,  recall 

How  this  snow  can  fall 

Autumn,  summer  and  spring — where  it  fell 

Lie  as  long  as  in  winter  as  well. 


55 


THE  TALE  OF  AN  ASS 

John,  son  of  thunder,  went 
For  a  stroll  up  through  the  lanes  ; 
He  mused  of  the  robe  and  throne 
That  were  to  repay  his  pains, 
When  his  master  should  be  king, 
And  he  himself  a  judge  ; 
Which  time  so  tarried,  he  owed 
Each  day  that  deferred  it  a  grudge. 

Though  he  darted  God's  wrath  from  his  eyes  ; 

Though  James  was  as  fiery  in  speech  ; 

"  What  handsome  lads  !  "  said  the  crowd, 

"  It's  a  pleasure  to  hear  them  preach  !  ' 

If  the  poor  believed  at  once 

That  the  rich  were  wildly  astray, 

To  examine  their  own  hearts'  faults 

What  snail  could  move  slower  than  they  ? 

And  as  for  the  wealthy,  great  stones 

Were  as  eager  as  they  to  think  ; 

So  he  felt  like  a  shepherd,  who 

Had  filled  up  his  troughs  to  the  brink, 

And  "  Hither,  ye  thirsty !  "  had  cried, 

But  whose  flock  would  not  gather  to  drink. 

Thus,  though  the  deep  lane  wound 

Among  green  fields,  between  gay  banks 

Loud  with  the  giddy  sound 

Of  grasshopper  fiddlers,  who  waited  no  thanks, 

But  played  over  and  over 

How  they  lived  in  clover,— 

This  young  reformer  frowned. 

Suddenly,  a  sharp  winding  brought  him 
Right  on  a  little  stray  ass  : 
And,  in  fancy,  John  had  caught  him 
Before  he  had  plucked  the  grass, 

56 


With  which  he  hoped  to  lure  him  near, 
Then  seize  him  by  a  long  grey  ear. 

But  the  frisky  creature  led 

The  apostle  no  end  of  a  trot, 

Till  he  panted  and  sighed  for  breath  ; 

And  the  only  '  ass  '  he  got 

Was  thrown  out  at  himself  for  ever 

Wasting  his  time  on  that  vain  endeavour. 

He  wiped  the  blinding  sweat  from  his  eyes  ; 

The  creature  leaned  against  a  wall, 

Like  its  own  shadow,  dangle-legged  ; 

A  shade  it  was  !  no  ass  at  all ! 

But  where  and  what  was  that  which  cast  it  ? 

John  scarce  dared  upward  glance, 

As  a  voice  quite  near  and  laughing, 

Said,  "  Friend,  we've  had  a  dance." 

No  longer  a  chafed  and  self-styled  ass, 

But  humble  and  docile,  John 

Stood  in  his  girdled  smock,  a  spirit 

Angels  might  wait  upon. 

For  he  beholds  a  Seraph  now, 

With  jewelled  band  braced  round  his  paps, 

And  gemmed  band  round  his  brow  ; 

In  saffron  vest  and  sandal-straps, 

Though  fisher-lad-like  glow 

His  naked  shins,  neck,  arms  and  hands 

Clean  as  the  water  and  brown  as  the  sands. 

A  nameless  one  of  that  host  was  he, 

Who  flamed  upon  the  sight 

Of  shepherds,  over  the  Bethlehem  hills 

On  the  first  Christmas  night. 

And  he  answered  John's  beseeching 
Awed  look,  as  lad  might  speak  to  lad 


57 


When  neither  the  one  or  the  other  had 

Dreamed  that  he  might  go  preaching: 

"  Though  reason  there  is  for  all  things  queer, 

"  It  may  be  hard  to  find  ; 

"  So  you  shall  know  how  I  came  here 

"  In  a  donkey's  form  and  mind. 

"  When,  singing  Unto  men  goodwill 
"  And  on  earth  peace  they  had  had  their  fill, 
"  Our  host  was  star-ward  gone 
"  From  the  white  hill  top,  on 
"  That  night  when  heaven's  most-admired 
"  Was  born  a  baby,  Adam's  son, 
"  To  mother  poor  and  travel-tired  :— 
"  I,  alone,  lingered  near  the  flocks 
"  And  hunted  in  and  out  the  rocks, 
"  Lest  Arab  bent  on  sheep-stealing 
"  Should  find  the  unguarded  fold, 
'  While  its  shepherds  were  all  kneeling 
"  Around  the  one-hour-old. 

"  From  rock-shadow  to  rock-shadow 
'  I  glid,  shaped  like  a  cloud  ; 
'  Then  crossed  the  road,  where  a  lame  father 
'  Limped  slow,  and  sobbed  aloud. 
"  His  grief  was  all  to  think  that  he 
'  Would  never,  with  the  others,  see 
'  What  made  God's  choir  stoop  down  to  earth, 
"  And  winged  the  young  men's  feet, 
"  And  flushed  his  own  heart,  that  cold  night, 
'  With  such  a  wealth  of  heat. 

'  To  see  him  was  to  pity  him 
"  And  wish  myself  an  ass. 
1  We  seraphs  never  want  a  thing, 
'  But  straight  it  comes  to  pass  : 
"  I  trotted  back  into  the  road, — 

58 


'  Which  I  had  crossed  a  trail 
"  Of  silvery  ground-creeping  mist, — 

'  Long-eared  with  tassel-tail. 

'*  He  seized  my  scruff  and  led  me  close 

"  Beside  a  boulder  stone, 

"  Climbed  to  my  back,  patted  my  neck, 

"  And  we  were  quickly  gone. 

'  No  need  had  he  to  urge  or  cheer  ; 
;<  My  heart  was  in  the  game  ; 
'  I  found  him  but  a  feather-weight. 
'  We  won  the  race  ;  though  lame 
'  He  was  the  first  to  kneel  before 
'  The  babe  all  longed  to  see  ; 
"  And  I  myself  was  the  first  ass 
'  WTho  dumbly,  stolidly 
"  Stared  at  that  perfect  bud  of  life, 
'  Which,  full-blown,  shall  set  free 
'  The  hearts  and  thoughts  and  lips  of  saints 
'  Through  ages  yet  to  be. 

'  There,  you  know  why,  in  pleasant  vales, 
"  On  visits  to  this  earth, 
"  I  find  a  joy  that  never  fails, 
"  And  fill  my  heart  with  mirth 

'  To  gallop  on  a  hilly  road, 

'  Where  other  asses  need  the  goad." 
He  vanished,  and  John  murmured  there, 
As  he  knelt  down  to  pray  : 

'  To  help  is  nobler  than  to  judge  ; 

'  Kind  service  is  like  play  ; 

1  To  appear  a  donkey  in  men's  eyes 
"  May  sometimes  be  divinely  wise." 


59 


TWILIGHT  REVERIE 

Remembered  in  the  evening, 
After  a  long  happy  day, 
All  my  moods  of  work  and  play 
Fold  together  like  a  book,— 
Collect,  compose  as,  at  a  look, 
A  picture  shows  you  miles  of  land, 
Mountain  or  camel-travelled  sand,— 
Or  as  a  crowd  which  may  require, 
For  all  its  homes,  full  half  a  shire. 

Remembered  in  the  evening, 

After  a  long  happy  day, 

All  my  moods  of  work  or  play 

Gleam  like  pool  at  some  sea-side 

Left  by  a  far-ebbing  tide,— 

World  you  could  cover  with  a  gown— 

Weed-forests,  a  pebble  town 

And  shell  palace,  where  tiny,  proud, 

Invisible  royalties, 

From  pearl-fretted  balconies, 

Gaze  at  my  face,  as  it  were  a  pink  cloud. 


60 


THE  ROWERS'  CHANT 

Row  till  the  land  dip  'neath 
The  sea  from  view. 
Row  till  a  land  peep  up, 
A  home  for  you. 

Row  till  the  mast  sing  songs 
Welcome  and  sweet, 
Row  till  the  waves,  out-stripped, 
Give  up,  dead  beat. 

Row  till  the  sea-nymphs  rise 
To  ask  you  why, 
Rowing,  you  tarry  not 
To  hear  them  sigh. 

Row  till  the  stars  grow  bright 
Like  certain  eyes. 
Row  till  the  noon  be  high 
As  hopes  you  prize. 

Row  till  you  harbour  in 
All  longing's  port. 
Row  till  you  find  all  things 
For  which  you  sought. 


61 


SOME  PRESS  OPINIONS 

POETRY 

THE   VINEDRESSER   AND   OTHER    POEMS.      1899 

I.  Mr.  Sturge  Moore's  volume  of  poems,  "  THE  VINE- 
DRESSER," discloses  a  more  remarkable  gift  than  any  first 
book  of  verse  of  recent  years.  It  has  puzzled  critics,  who 
have  contradicted  each  other  more  than  usual  about  it.  ... 
Fertility  and  resourcefulness  are  excellent  gifts,  but  they  do 
not  of  themselves  imply  high  poetry,  and  I  think  Mr.  Moore 
has  higher  claims  than  these.  He  has  the  creative  imagina- 
tion.— Mr.  LAURENCE  BINYON  in  The  Literary  YearBook^  1899. 

POEMS.     1906 

Mr.  Moore's  best  work  is  drenched  in  beauty — he  can  take 
these  old  themes  and  stories,  and  tell  them  over  again,  in  a 
manner  that  is  full  of  the  great  tradition  and  carries  its 
echoes  of  the  past,  recalling  the  Greek  way  of  telling  them, 
and  the  romantic  way  too  ;  yet  which  is  no  mere  copy  of 
either,  but  his  own  manner,  and  one  that  has  the  right  touch 
of  our  day  about  it.  Sometimes  he  reminds  one  of  such 
work  as  that  wonderful  drawing  of  Edward  Calvert's 
"  Arcadian  Shepherds  moving  their  Flocks  by  Night,"  some- 
times of  Mr.  C.  H.  Shannon's  beautiful  lithographs  ;  but 
while  as  intensely  Greek  and  intensely  romantic  as  either 
Calvert  or  Mr.  Shannon,  he  is  more  modern  than  either  in 
the  handling  of  these  ancient  things. 

The  Times  Literary  Supplement. 
THE   SEA   IS    KIND.     1914. 

It  is  beautiful  as  a  book  alone,  apart  from  its  contents,  for 
Mr.  Sturge  Moore  is  artist,  as  well  as  poet,  ...  he  has 
designed  the  cover  of  his  volume  and,  as  one  guesses, 
ordered  the  fair  setting  of  its  type.  The  result  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  recent  books  of  poetry.  .  .  .  The  poetry 
of  Mr.  Sturge  Moore  springs  from  a  serene  state  remote 
from  squalor  and  noise,  where  all  fair  things  inhabit — fair 
women,  and  ships  and  trees  and  children,  and  thoughts. 
The  beauty  of  these  poems  is  intrinsic,  an  inward  shining 
lamp  of  steady  glow  ...  he  yet  stands  among  contemporary 
singers  as  a  modern  poet  with  the  additional  advantage  of 
being  disinclined  to  fuss  about  his  modernism. 

T.  P's.  Weekly ,  May  ist,  1914. 

62 


PROSE 

DURER.     1905 

There  is  a  brooding-  quiet,  a  religious  calm,  over  the  whole 
book,  as  if  the  spirit  of  Diirer  in  his  work  and  in  his  writings 
had  passed  into  his  commentator,  endowing  him  with  some- 
thing of  the  like  earnest  reasonableness  and  patience.  It  is 
a  beautiful  and  serious  book,  full  of  the  meditations  of  a 
mind  that  stands  aside,  weighs,  ponders,  and  decides.  .  .  . 

ARTHUR  SYMONS  in  the  Outlook. 

CORREGGIO.     1906 

A  book  that  stands  out  completely  from  the  current  criticism 
of  art  in  its  penetrating  power  and  grasp  of  fundamental 
ideas.  ...  I  believe  that  it  is  on  the  main  lines  of  such  work 
as  this  that  aesthetic  criticism,  if  it  is  to  have  any  vital  hold 
on  the  intelligent  interests  of  the  world,  must  proceed. 

LAURENCE  BINYON  in  the  Saturday  Review. 

ART   AND   LIFE.     1910 

In  a  day  rather  impatient  of  large-mindedness  and  of  pro- 
found convictions,  we  are  none  the  less  in  the  presence  of  a 
writer  who  may  deal  with  such  men  as  Flaubert  and  Blake 
on  terms  of  assurance  ;  and,  being  himself  its  possessor,  may 
speak  of  the  dangers  and  obligations  of  genius  without  risk 
of  arrogance  or  lack  of  sympathy  and  comprehension. 

The  Westminster  Gazette. 

HARK   TO   THESE  THREE.     1915 

Crammed  into  the  fifty-four  small  pages  of  this  little  book  is 
the  wisdom  of  a  lifetime,  the  mature  conclusions  of  a  critic 
and  of  a  thinker  who  is  also  a  poet.  To  attempt  to  para- 
phrase or  summarize  its  conclusions  would  be  to  court  the 
failure  that  awaits  the  translator  of  a  lyric.  But  what 
Stanton  chiefly  insists  on  is  the  sovereign  truth  that  in  art, 
as  in  life,  there  can  be  no  standing  still. 

The  Times  Literary  Supplement. 

63 


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